The Sun Will Set For You
by Sybella
Summary: Lucas/Peyton. they spin and dance. this is the love story with no beginning. no end. he left town on a tuesday, all warm smiles and goodbyes and she stretched her lips so wide, she thought her mouth might crack from the pressure. for martyr4mylove4u


** the sun will set for you.**

He left town on a Tuesday, all warm smiles and goodbyes and she stretched her lips so wide, she thought her mouth might crack from the pressure.

She remember the sight of his broad back, the fabric of the jacket tight around his shoulders. The way the sun shone through each lock of hair and the way her heart twisted and dropped when he walked away.

Later that night, there were tears unshed. Hiding in the curl of her lashes and then, she thought, she loved him.

---

Time flicks by like the pages of a book.

(_His book. Always, his._)

It's published in black and white, she's in New York at the time and she sees it sitting there in the window and her heart does the back stroke in a sea of regrets.

The cover of it feels heavy when she lifts it, her fingers trembling as weak as the knees beneath her and she picks it up, mouth bit down with a set of white teeth.

"How much?" Her words choke out from between dry lips, spread and parched like she's just stepped out of the desert and the man over the counter looks at her oddly.

"Allright, miss?"

He's cute. Tall, dark hair. Blue eyes and he looks a bit like Nate, with his hair in his eyes and her fingers crumple against the paper to stop from ruffling it back.

"Yes." The sound of it is tight, harsh. She hands over the money and waves away the change, the plastic bag, door chiming behind her as she leaves.

---

Once, as lovers, they had sex on a park bench.

It was wet (the rain) and awkward and fantastic and later, they lay there for hours. Under the stars, her head in his lap and his body burned with the heat of ten suns.

She reads it on a park bench, Central Park. Stretches out her legs and keeps her head down. This time, her eyes shine. Traces the words with her finger and each one tastes like goodbye.

(Every someday is swallowed up with _forever_ and good bye, forever.)

---

These days, Peyton listens to the Beatles.

It's fucking cheesy but she sits there in her car, taps out the syllables of song lyrics against the thick leather of the steering wheel.

She listens to "Girl" twenty two times before she decides it's her song and tells herself that this is me and then her voice is hoarse and her tongue feels like its run a marathon, so she pulls the car up against the curb.

Night's just falling and it's cold, her jacket loose over thin shoulders. She pushes at the door of the nearest bar, leaning against the large knob before falling through, graceful even in her clumsiness.

Inside, it's kind of dark, kind of smoky. Kind of perfect.

The doorway frames her for a moment- she's drinking it all in and her eyes skip over the other customers twice over before they land and linger on him.

He looks _good_. Taller, now. Bit broader, too and he's got that half grin gracing his mouth, elbow against the table and he's thumbing through something old. The pages are as yellow as her hair and his.

Luke doesn't look up and legs feel as though they are filled with lead, heavy as she glides through the bar and she's moving underwater, now.

Her feet sag, stop, carry her to his table and she rests there, all quiet and big eyes. Pupils so big now that she can feel them expand, spin over the length of his body.

Her heart seems to still, wait there. For him.

(She hates it, wants to tug off her curls but there's no help for it. She always waits for him.)

"Hey."

His name sits inside her mouth, unspoken. She clutches the wooden end of the table for support, flesh tight and stiff at the knuckles.

Blond head moves up and he starts slow, just like the engine of the comet. He's legs unfold and then, he's there- next to her. It's too close, his hands in the space between them.

Her arms move to go around him, but she stops herself. It's too much. He's runs a hand through his hair.

"Peyton. Peyton Sawyer."

The room lurches. Peyton Sawyer sits herself down on that pretty little butt, palms pressed to the wood and he takes the one opposite her, heels against his eyes.

(The world turns. They sit.)

---

Sex is how they connect.

For all his prose, her lyrics- words never work between them. Sit empty against their tongues, meaningless and they trade promises with mouth and sweat and hands sliding beneath fabric and hitching breath.

She leaves her scent between the sheets, drowning him in the morning and the only goodbye is a dent in the pillow, the marks on his back.

They collide, hard, fast. Again and again.

---

Next time, he pins her down.

Sun rises and she's still there, back against the blankets and his mouth on her.

"Don't leave." He whispers it.

("Come back to bed" never works. His arms drape over her like vines, like chains.)

She murmurs, lashes stuck together, eyes almost shut. He strains to hear her, words caught between skin and flesh and sweat.

"I never want to leave."

It sinks him, he falls beside her. The princess is released and her legs swing over the side of the bed. There is a shift of cloth, clothes hiss across the floor, over her limbs. He loves her legs, her long skinny arms, the way they twist and tangle with his, young and inaccurate and unpredictable.

She sweeps up her hair, doesn't glance over her shoulders and she reaches for the strap of her purse.

"Bye, Luke." It's soft, her hand stilling on the doorknob.

This time, she leaves nothing behind.


End file.
